


Way to Live

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: The Man Who Waits [1]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 15:03:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13860231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: Amusing, he thinks, that people sacrifice so much – most often something that belongs to others, usually life or sanity – to keep their minds and knowledge and memories intact beyond what their bodies can endure.Very few realise one has to make an offering of oneself to be granted that blessing. And no one realises that mortals' souls are not made to withstand it, and thus, over time, it must become a curse as well.





	Way to Live

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Filigranka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/gifts).



There are familiar footsteps echoing in Breith Eaman – not against the floor tiles, but in his soul. Ah, so she found it. There is very little he can do now but wait, see it through to the end. Part of him – that most troublesome, that which gives him insomnia and ages him prematurely – part of him hoped that she would turn away. She has but a few steps left to do that. It would save them both time and effort. It would save her life.

Poor thing, Thaos thinks, pressing his lips tightly together when they start curling into a mirthless smile. But she made her choice.

He looks past the walls, at the lines drawn across the ancient chambers by adra – and at the soul prison. No, never again. Besides, unlike Iovara, she had been loyal in that past life; and in this one, she was trying to avoid confrontation for as long as she could – she was only searching for answers. But that is no longer the case. Still, she had been loyal – and he will be merciful.

A swift end, a new beginning. Another absolution of the truth she is going to find soon. He had granted it to her in the past – he remembers – the image comes to him sharp like the white adra knife it depicts.

Thaos looks down at his palm, remembers the weight of the blade. White like her face. He shakes his head, trying to shake the memories off as well.

Amusing, he thinks, that people sacrifice so much – most often something that belongs to others, usually life or sanity – to keep their minds and knowledge and memories intact beyond what their bodies can endure. Misguided, like in so many convictions and endeavours.

There is a way. But very few realise one has to make an offering of oneself to be granted that blessing. And no one realises that mortals' souls are not made to withstand it, and thus, over time, it must become a curse as well. The price for having a perfect memory is that you remember all; every little piece. The price of a soul being such a flawed vessel is that you remember even things that might have never been.

* * *

 

“She would have been useful for years yet.”

“She would have.” Woedica’s voice is honey and poison. “But I don’t share my tools.”

“Still, a waste.”

“Ah. How very mortal of you. But you see, every decision is weighing both gains and costs. Sometimes, the risk is not worth it; even a feather can tip the scales.”

“Have you perhaps taken into account that he can hear us, High Justice?”

“Here, in the inner sanctum? Don’t be a fool, sage. Of course he does. That is its purpose.”

“So many failures in one life. Wouldn’t it be easier to…”

“Ever so impatient, Magran. You see, that’s the difference between mere resources and servants. He has a very rare talent – he learns from his mistakes.”

* * *

 

She does not have such an ability; not yet. Too trusting for that, too naive; she would try to see hope even in an error. Just as she is doing now. Poor thing, Thaos thinks, because he has enough time to spare a moment for pity, even if he does not truly feel it. Maybe, in some next life, she will learn.

Poor thing, coming here in search of an answer, unaware of its cost. Having no idea how much she will have to pay for it. Maybe that particular memory has not come back to her yet.

* * *

 

There are thoughts tangled in the pin like hair, wrapped around the copper twigs and adra beads. Holding it is like looking at a chaotic mosaic put together from her memories. Most of them meaningless; just happy pictures that would not provide any knowledge should anyone ever steal this trinket. That does not surprise him. She was careful and far-sighted in that, at least.

It is nothing; just a collection of their intimate moments, those she treasured the most. Her hand in his. Her body in his arms as they fall asleep. A smile. A kiss. Her hands on his soul.

His soul in her hands.

He slowly turns the pin over in his fingers. Gently, one by one, he disentangles the threads, until there is nothing left but cold metal and empty stone.

* * *

 

Her soul is flickering like a candle in a draughty room. Nothing like the fire he recalls. And then another kind of light; a dawn over snow and broken ice. A winter sunrise. Cold. But still, it is light.

She has learned, Thaos thinks, looking at her sombre face. Somewhere, somehow, she has learned. No, her sad eyes tell him; I remember.

* * *

 

It has been years since they last meditated together. He does it sometimes, if a promising acolyte has troubles with focus or faces doubts, but not often.

Now she is beyond doubts; she is lost and distressed and feels terribly guilty – not a fair reward for what she did, nor for her loyalty. And – it has been a difficult evening, for everyone; he is weary. She needs to calm down, and he needs to focus, and it is always easier to do so when he has to direct someone.

The wind is cold this night, but the gardens are quiet. Just the faint rustle of leaves, and voices far enough to pretend they are not real.

They are both half-kneeling, half-sitting on the stone tiles, hands outstretched and palms touching, hers resting gently on his.

She is silent, trying to find a suitable prayer – he can see a small part of her mind is already shifting away from Iovara. When she starts speaking – quietly, but much more evenly than he would have expected after her stifled sobs – it is a prayer to Eothas.

His hands jerk slightly under hers. Of all the prayers – this is a token gesture of kindness; a courtesy to her, for he does not pray like others do; how could he? – of all the prayers, this one is the most meaningless. Redemption. Absolution. There are no such things. Not like people see them. Not like people see them unless they believe it, perhaps. But for him – never.

She gasps, and without opening his eyes he can picture the concerned look on her face.

“Go on,” he says calmly. It does not matter, after all.

She does so, quietly. And then she chooses a prayer to Woedica and he wants to laugh, because she is doing that to comfort him. As if he needed compassion.

Not that she has any idea about it all. But still, she finishes and then falls silent.

“Go on,” he repeats, without opening his eyes, drawing in a steady breath.

“Can I say my own prayer?” she asks timidly, hands shifting lightly against his as she moves nervously.

“Yes. Of course.” He encourages all acolytes to do it, and among her peers, she was one of the first permitted to write their prayers unsupervised.

Her voice goes even quieter when she starts speaking, but it is also calmer. It is an earnest prayer about doubts and sins and hope – and then it dawns on him. Her words – she is speaking of that day when they talked in the chapel, when she asked him to allow her to leave, and he convinced her to stay.

He slowly opens his eyes. She is looking at him; there is a soft glow to her soul that reflects in her face.

“Why?” he asks, conveying most of his meaning through thoughts.

“You… gave me hope.” It is too dark to see that, but she must be blushing; she always does. Her palms shift on his – intentionally – and she gently squeezes his hands. “You give us all hope.” There is still sadness in her, but her soul is a small warm candle. “There’s no greater gift.”

She does not yet know that each gift and blessing has a price. But, miraculously – amusing as it is – her words help him focus. Remind him why he agreed to walk this path.

“There is also peace,” he replies, taking her hands in his, letting her understand the words as she wills, letting her think she gives him that. It is no lie, after all. But like the prayers – it is meaningless for him, in the end.

“You told me once,” she whispers ardently, “that there is hope for everyone.” She means Iovara; herself; him. “That is,” she adds softly, “what I choose to believe in.”

He does not tell her she is wrong.

* * *

 

Indeed, she remembers. But more than that; she understands. She reaches out with her soul as if she could grasp it instead of his hands.

“You’re right.” Her eyes are so full of sorrow it almost moves him. “That’s no way to live.”

Not, it is not. That is why she must die.

That is why he had to die. Just once, in the beginning. And he did.

Not well enough.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
> This author replies to comments.



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